Evenings
by ForbiddenDreams13
Summary: Evenings like these are her favorite. Snuggled up next to America with a soft lamp on and the radio low, there isn't a place in the world Belarus would rather be.


**Hey guys, what's up? Welcome to another one of my Amebel oneshots. This pairing is awesome and deserves more love. All for the Amebel Revolution!**

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Nestling her head against America's shoulder, Belarus breathes a contented sigh. Evenings like these are her favorite. The radio is turned low, Frank Sinatra's voice reduced to a deep murmur punctuated here and there by trumpets, the lamp in the far corner casts a soft glow of aged gold, reaching far enough the wrap the two of them within its edge. Aside from the radio and the occasional pop and hum of the central heating, there is not a sound between the two of them. Her, far too comfortable to make the effort and him far too absorbed in his book. Belarus lets her gaze wander down to her lap, where her own book lays, closed and abandoned in favor of curling up to the man she loves. For a moment, Belarus picks it back up, contemplating continuing from where she left off, but decides against it. Pushkin can wait until later. Once more placing the book in her lap, Belarus grabs her cup of tea off the coffee table in front of her and takes a sip, savoring the sharp bite of peppermint.

Old Blue Eyes' voice fades away, and the silky, sultry, black-velvet singing of Marilyn Maxwell creeps into the room. Her lips curve upward in a small smile. Forties and fifties music-it's his favorite thing to listen to during quiet evenings. Placing her cup back down, Belarus curls closer to America, drawing her legs up on the couch. America's arm drops down from the back of the couch, draping around her small frame with his hand coming to rest on her hip. He leans his cheek against the top of her head, eyes never leaving the page. It's funny, even sometimes surprising to her how well-read the man is. Kipling, Wilde, Voltaire, Camus, Moliere, Goethe, Brecht, Tolstoy, Kafka; pick any one of the nine and more, and America can talk your ear off about them. Curious, she leans her head over, trying to see what book it is that has him so enraptured. _Something Wicked This Way Comes_ by Ray Bradbury. Ah yes, she mustn't forget America's authors. From the contemporary to the modern, many of them have been read the world over.

However, Belarus can't help but quirk an eyebrow, "isn't that the second time you've read that book?" she asks.

"Third," America replies, clucking his tongue and turning the page.

The Slavic girl snorts, "You're strange."

America smiles, "you know it, love."

They lapse back into silence. A strange man indeed, but she loves him all the same for it. It's odd though, that she ended up with him instead of her brother for whom she'd been pining for several years. America and Russia are total opposites. America is loud and boisterous; he's vibrant, his personality is a kaleidoscope of emotions and thoughts, each one unique. Russia on the other hand, is quiet and calm; if America is a color palette, Russia is monochrome; limited by gray's darkening scope, even his calm thoughts of white bleed down into the ebon sea that is his ever-churning rage. By extension of blood, Belarus is the same way: cold, foul-tempered, and as quiet as a snow-laden cemetery. And yet, that single conversation, held so long ago amid the rubble of a destroyed German town shed just a few drops of blushing crimson onto the blank, icy rose of her soul, awakening it, strengthening it and leaving her hungry for more.

He is her confidant and she is his. With her broken past and his perilous future, they seek comfort in their shared present. Only he knows of her nightmares and she's the one person to ever see him break. When the terror and anxiety get to be too much, they'll hold each other, her sobbing softly and him shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm.

Outside, the wind screams as it rattles over top the house. Temperatures have been in the low thirties for the past week, it rained all day yesterday, and snow looms just around the corner. However, Belarus isn't concerned. It's warm here with him. Even if she's buried in snow as long as America is beside her, the sunlight is always shining.

She looks over at him. Soft hair tinted saffron with eyes of a deep, endless azure sky, the man is daylight personified; and much like the daylight, he breaks through the crushing darkness that pervades her mind, bathing the intangible landscape in a glow so bright that no shadow may dare to live there again. He saves her from herself on so many occasions, pulling her out of her steel box and into the bright, open spaces she feared for so long and she keeps him steady and upright, shining high in the sky so that he may never falter, for if the sun were to crash and burn, so would everything with it. But as long as the sun has somewhere to rest, a sliver of blocking moon to save some golden glow for another day, it can shine on.

Warm, safe, and loved, Belarus closes her eyes and begins to drift off. She loves these evenings. The lamp glowing softy, oldies music on the radio, and America by her side. It's so wonderful, so full of love.

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**Okay, this is not one of my better pieces. Still, I'd love to hear from you guys. Drop me a line sometime. **


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